


How the Future's Done

by barricadeur



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, contains multimedia content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 15:52:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barricadeur/pseuds/barricadeur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grantaire," he says slowly. "What do you have in that box?"</p><p>Grantaire looks up at Enjolras, his eyes very blue even with the glaze of drunkenness at the edges.  "A favor," he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How the Future's Done

Grantaire shows up at Enjolras's apartment at 11:30 on a Saturday night. 

He leans on the buzzer for so long that the noise makes Enjolras's teeth vibrate, and doesn't even pretend to be sorry when Enjolras cracks the door open and hisses, "I was _asleep_ , asshole."

"Man, your life is the worst," Grantaire says, and shoulders past him. He's carrying a shoebox, a plastic grocery bag slung over his forearm.

"Not all of us think the goal of life is to get blasted on well whiskey." 

"I beg your most _egregious_ pardon," Grantaire drawls, stretching his neck long and throwing back his shoulders. "I reject your teleological and frankly rather bourgeois presumption that I live my life according to goals, rather than as a leaf on the winds of fate. Also, it was Maker's Mark."

Enjolras rolls his eyes. "Fancy." 

Grantaire goes to dip into a bow, but then stops short, evidently remembering that he's still carrying something. He sits down on Enjolras's couch -- Enjolras represses a sigh; there'll be no getting rid of him now that he doesn't have to worry about staying upright -- and picks up a corner of the box lid.

"Hello, baby," he coos. 

Enjolras has a very bad feeling about this. "Grantaire," he says slowly. "What do you have in that box?"

Grantaire looks up at Enjolras, his eyes very blue even with the glaze of drunkenness at the edges. "A favor," he says.

The box shivers. A small mewling noise emanates from within.

" _Grantaire_."

Grantaire knocks the lid off, his hands scooping down -- and pulls out a tiny grey and white kitten.

Enjolras actually takes a step back. "What the fuck."

"His name's Enjolras," Grantaire says. He smooths the pad of his thumb over the kitten's head; its eyes narrow to slits. 

Enjolras makes a sound that he would be hard-pressed to describe –- somewhere between a gasp and a squawk. 

"Nah," Grantaire says, "I'm just fucking with you. Enjolras is a terrible name for a cat. I'm thinking about calling him Robot. Or her, I'm not really sure. Fuck patriarchal gender norms anyway, right? Robot is an equal opportunity badass name."

Enjolras tries to reason his way through it. "Why do you have a cat?"

The kitten is so small that it fits in one of Grantaire's cupped palms. When he sets it on his lap, it stomps around in a circle and lays down on top of his thigh. Its mouth opens, tiny pink tongue curling.

"It's the craziest fucking story," Grantaire says. Normally, he gestures a lot when he speaks, especially when drunk, but Enjolras can tell that he's trying to stay still so as not to dislodge the cat. "I was out with Bahorel, right, and we were at that place under the B.Q.E. -- you know, the place with the backyard where we can't have meetings anymore because it got a 'B' rating from the Health Department and Joly had a panic attack?" 

Enjolras nods, but he can tell it's only a rhetorical question. Grantaire steamrolls ahead. "Anyway, we were just drinking, chilling, whatever -- Bahorel bet me thirty bucks on last night's game and lost, hence the top-shelf liquor -- and this sketchy ass dude just comes out of nowhere and tries to _sell_ us a kitten."

"And so you bought one?" 

"Fuck no!" Grantaire leans forward, offended, then remembers the cat, who has dug his little claws into Grantaire's jeans and is firmly attached. "I mean, who the fuck tries to sell live animals at a bar? What if we had been, like, Satanists or some shit and we were gonna take it home and sacrifice it inside a pentagram? And so we were like, dude, what the fuck is wrong with you, and then he started getting in our face about how it's a free country, and he can do whatever he wants because money is money, and then I told him that if he wanted to live in some kind of Randian capitalist hellscape then fine, but that meant he didn't have any recourse if someone punched him in the face and stole his cat."

"Randian capitalist hellscape?"

Grantaire grins. "I thought you'd like that. So anyway, we punched him in the face and stole his cat."

"We?" 

"Well," Grantaire amends, "Mostly me. But Bahorel talked to the bartender to make sure we didn't get kicked out afterwards, and he totally agreed with me how fucked up it was. I mean, look at this little dude! There's no way he's old enough to be away from his mama, and this guy was just gonna sell him to some fucking Satanists? We both agreed, punching that fucker was a mission of justice."

Enjolras rubs his face. This is why he prefers to spend his nights catching up on work or reading the most recent issue of the Columbia Law Review. Evenings out with his friends have a tendency to go off the rails in new and unexpected ways, especially if Grantaire is involved. 

Although there's something about the image of Grantaire -- cynical, feckless Grantaire, who only shows up to their social justice society meetings because he's friends with Bahorel and is as likely to fall asleep as contribute anything of merit -- diving across a bar with eyes blazing, shit-talking Objectivism and throttling a stranger for animal trafficking, that settles warmly inside Enjolras's chest.

"And now you have a kitten," Enjolras finishes.

Grantaire looks up from the kitten, who is gnawing on the side of his thumb with an endearing single-mindedness. 

"That's the thing," he starts, and then pauses as if he’s searching for the right words. (Never a good sign.) "Bahorel couldn't take him, because his roommate has a big dog, and we were afraid he'd get eaten. And I'm not allowed to have pets -- my landlord keeps sneaking into my apartment to find reasons to evict me because he wants to raise the rent, and if he found out I was keeping a cat, he'd throw me out for sure."

Enjolras sits up straight. "Grantaire, that's illegal. He can't just barge in without a reason."

"I know," Grantaire says with a rueful shrug, "but the place is actually worth more than I'm paying since I've been there so long, and I know I couldn't find another place as good if I left."

"You have rights," Enjolras says. He doesn't know why he's so upset, but the familiar spark of outrage kindles in his chest. He's been to Grantaire's apartment once, when Grantaire was too drunk to make his way home alone and Enjolras and Combeferre basically carried him the nine blocks from the nearest subway station. The words "death trap" come to mind; Enjolras is ashamed to admit that he always assumed it was Grantaire's natural sloth that kept it in such a state.

"If you come to the Legal Services center, I'll get you in touch with someone who handles tenants' rights issues, and they can --"

"I don't want him to retaliate and start fucking with my heat," Grantaire cuts him off. "He's basically a slum lord; it's not worth antagonizing him. Anyway, I can't keep Robot there. We called around, but all the shelters are closed for the long weekend, and, well." He pauses, giving Enjolras a significant look.

Of course. Enjolras ought to have seen this coming. Amateur hour. Never trust a Grantaire bearing boxes. 

"The favor in the box," he finishes.

Grantaire nods. At least he has the good grace to look sheepish about it. "It's just for two days. The shelters'll all be open again on Tuesday, and I can take him in then."

The word “no” comes to him immediately. Hell no. He's never been a pet person, never had so much as a fish. The last tenant left a spider plant when they moved out, and Enjolras kept it around but within seven weeks it was near death from him forgetting to water the thing. Jehan finally rescued it, spiriting it out of the apartment with a black glare and muttering under his breath about Enjolras's capacity for thoughtless cruelty. A cat -- even a very small, very temporary cat -- requires orders of magnitudes more attention than Enjolras has ever thought to expend on something besides his causes.

He looks at Grantaire, though, at the hopeful smile that he's trying to suppress and the way he gently pets the kitten, his palm big enough to span its back, and what comes out instead is, "I don't have anything for a cat."

Grantaire's smile spills over his face, wide enough that Enjolras can count his white teeth. "We got you covered," he says. "Bahorel looked it up on his iPhone, and apparently kittens can drink goat's milk? So we stopped by this restaurant where he knows one of the sous chefs, and they gave us some." He reaches forward, opens the plastic bag and pulls out a glass bottle filled with white liquid. "For a litter box, we figured you could just use the lid of the shoebox, and we got some of the litter stuff from the bodega. It's in here too."

Enjolras has to admit that as Grantaire's drunken escapades go, this one is remarkably well-planned. He'd always assumed, to the extent that he thought about such things, that Grantaire's fundamental inability to get his own shit together would render him incapable of exerting any responsibility towards someone else. But he leans forward to look into the bag, and sure enough, there's a small purple container with a drawing of a smiley cat on it -- along with a stuffed bear wearing a Mets jersey.

"They had one of those claw games," Grantaire says when Enjolras picks it up. "I thought he might get lonely, all by himself."

"How much money did you blow trying to win it, though?"

Grantaire sniffs, feigning offense. "I'm the _man_ when it comes to arcade games. Fucking pinball wizard over here."

"I don't know if I can share a roof with a Mets fan," Enjolras says. "Even a fluffy one."

Grantaire waves a hand. "The more you tighten your grip, Yankee scum, the more star systems will slip through your fingers."

Enjolras laughs loud enough that the kitten startles, jumping back and knocking against Grantaire's stomach before falling back down. Grantaire runs a soothing hand over its head, dips his head to croon soft nothings. A lock of hair falls from his knit cap to shade his face.

When he looks back up, Enjolras just sighs. "Help me make up a place for him to sleep?"

Somehow, Grantaire's smile gets even bigger.

 

\--

 

The next morning, Enjolras wakes up and for a moment, he's sure that the whole thing was a dream, a weird mélange of his subconscious and the ambient noises that float up from the street. 

That is, until he feels a pressure alight on his chest and hears a rhythmic purr.

He cracks open his eyes. 

Robot (god, what a terrible name; he hopes whoever adopts him comes up with something less insane) stares up at him from his perch on Enjolras's sternum. Meows, showing the pink inside of his mouth and the white dots of his milk teeth. 

"Not a dream, then," Enjolras says. "How did you even get up here?" 

He'd be worried that he's become someone who talks to cats, but if Enjolras is honest with himself, he's always been enamored with the sound of his own voice.

He scoops Robot up and carries him into the kitchen tucked in the crook of his arm; he's all fur and warmth, his little heart thumping against Enjolras' fingers. He sets him down on the kitchen table, and gets out the goat's milk. Grantaire said to warm it up, so he pours some into a dish and pops it into the microwave, watching Robot bump his head against the saltshaker until the bell dings. He sets the dish down, and watches Robot eat, his tongue lapping up the milk with a scraping noise. Afterwards, he places him on the ground.

"Good cat," he says, feeling absurd, and Robot yawns.

Enjolras boils water and makes himself a cup of coffee, gathers the newspapers from his doorstep and sits down to read them. Midway through today's installment of Thomas Friedman's inane bullshit, something warm and fuzzy rubs up against his ankle. He drops his fingers down, not sure of what else to do, and Robot noses at them, meowing. 

It's easy enough to pull him up into his lap. Robot kneads around for a little bit, before finding a comfortable spot to settle down.

"Fucking neo-liberal war hawks," Enjolras mutters. 

Robot purrs.

 

\--

 

He gets used to it pretty quickly, having a small ball of fur appear in his peripheral vision at odd moments. Robot seems pretty self-sufficient, a tendency that Enjolras appreciates in humans as well as pets; he spends most of his time exploring the apartment. The litter box thing works out, for which Enjolras is enormously grateful, and Robot seems to really like that dumb bear. 

Other things Robot likes: the inside of Enjolras's jogging shoes; racing pell-mell down the hallway after an unseen prey before coming to a dead halt for no apparent reason; napping on his back with his feet in the air.

He also likes Enjolras's lap, especially when he's on the couch hate-reading Habermas for Criminal Philosophy, of all things.

"God, I wish there was a way we could trade you and bring Foucault back to life. At least Foucault was funny." 

Enjolras has come to take Robot's purring for agreement. It's nice to have someone around who doesn't roll their eyes when he gets like this, who hasn't heard his rants about communicative rationality a hundred times before and wouldn't care if he had.

If Robot also spends some of his time play-boxing with Enjolras's hands, well…he's still a better audience than a lot of people. 

Sometime in the afternoon, his phone buzzes with a series of messages from Grantaire.

_hows my favorite dude in the world doing??_  
 _i ment robot btw_  
 _ur #4 on the list_  
 _robot david wright tony stark and you_

Enjolras smiles. _Tony Stark isn't real,_ he replies.

Buzz. _you don't know that tho he's so rich he could be payrolling marvel just to make him seem like they made him up.  
no but srsly how is he?? _

Enjolras reaches over, snaps a photo of Robot asleep on a pile of books and sends it. 

Thirty seconds later: _my heart grew 3 sizes today. tell robot his daddy misses him but i shower him with kisses from faraway._

That night, Enjolras is just getting ready for bed when Grantaire calls.

"Hey," he says, "listen, I'm really sorry, but I just got called in for a shift tomorrow waiting tables, and I really need the money. I know I said I'd take him to the shelter, but -- do you mind keeping him for one more day?"

Enjolras looks over to his bed, where Robot is doing his usual stomping in a circle before settling on one of his pillows. By now, Enjolras has figured out how he gets up on the bed -- he watched surreptitiously from the bathroom as Robot dug his claws into the overhanging corner of a sheet and scaled the side, like a rock climber up the sheer face of a cliff. 

Robot stares up at him, blinking.

"It's not a problem," Enjolras says.

"You're a prince," Grantaire replies, and Enjolras doesn't know what to say to that. "Put him on the phone?"

"The -- cat?"

"Come on," Grantaire says, "I wanna talk to him."

"He's a cat."

"Oh, like you haven't been regaling him with your shit all day." Grantaire's voice drops into the low, cajoling register Enjolras has only ever heard him use on attractive bartenders just past last call. "Lemme say hi, please?"

"You're ridiculous," Enjolras says, but he places the phone on the pillow next to Robot and listens in as Grantaire croons softly across the line. Enjolras sits and strokes Robot's tiny back, and somehow the sound of Grantaire murmuring inanities filters into the deepest parts of his consciousness and soothes him, too.

 

\--

 

The next day, he texts Grantaire. He times it so he's reasonably sure Grantaire will be working. 

_No rush on the shelter._

When Grantaire texts him back a few hours later, his message is nothing but a stream of smiley faces.

 

\--

 

Things just sort of go from there. 

Enjolras googles a shit ton of information about raising a kitten, and after class one day he heads to the PetSmart downtown armed with a shopping list and a sense of higher purpose. He buys Robot (god, that name's really not going anywhere, is it?) a proper litter box, dishes for food and water, a scratching post and a pallet of kitten food that the internet recommended. He does grab a soft little dish bed for him, but when he goes to look at toys, somehow he knows that none of the stuffed animals on display will be as welcome as Grantaire's sad-sack Mets bear. 

He doesn't think to tell anyone -- a part of him assumes that Grantaire will have done that, but to be honest, it's not something he really deems relevant. Most of the time, Robot does his own thing, and over the course of the next week, when Enjolras wakes up to a seismic purring and a warm lump against his chest, it takes him a second to remember that he has a cat now. 

So when Combeferre is coming over to help proofread the piece they plan to submit to the Law Review on stop-and-frisk practices, it doesn't even occur to him to mention it beforehand. 

Combeferre's face when he looks down and sees a kitten attached to his pant leg is amusing, to put it mildly.

"Oh," Enjolras says. "Sorry. That's, ah. Robot." 

Combeferre lifts his leg, but Robot's teeny claws are stuck in fast and he just dangles. 

"This is new," he says mildly.

Enjolras runs a hand over his face. "Grantaire found him, through a series of events I wasn't drunk enough to follow, and somehow he's been left in my keeping."

"Grantaire?" Combeferre gives him a strange look. 

"I know," Enjolras says. "I still don't know why I went along with it."

Enjolras watches Combeferre's gaze track across the room, taking in the bed that Enjolras placed on top of the sunniest windowsill, the scratching post by the stereo and the food and water dish visible through the kitchen door. He crouches down, and Enjolras bites back a wince -- he's never seen Robot interact with anyone who isn't him or Grantaire, and he's pretty sure that wherever he came from, it wasn't a place that encouraged stranger socialization. But Combeferre just lets Robot sniff his fingers, sussing him out. 

"I think it's good for you," he says, skritching behind Robot's ears. Enjolras doesn't know exactly what that means, but thankfully Combeferre doesn't press the issue. 

 

\--

 

Later, he gets a text from Courfeyrac: _I HEAR YOU AND R HAVE ADOPTED A CAT TOGETHER AS A JOINT EXPRESSION OF YR LOVE -- CONGRATS! PLZ CONSIDER ME AS A CANDIDATE FOR KITTY GODFATHER._

Enjolras doesn't even bother responding. 

 

\--

 

Three days later, Cosette and Eponine show up at his apartment.

"Hey," Enjolras says. It's nice to see them; Eponine was the first person he met when he got to law school, and they've always gotten on well, even if he does find her terrifying. Cosette is getting her MFA in Photography; she only started coming to their Law Students For Social Justice meetings after she and Marius hooked up, but her input is always good and she's an important member -- even if the two of them sometimes sneak off to make out during meetings. 

But it's not like Enjolras really hangs out with either of them, so he's not sure what they're doing here.

"Uh, what's up?" he tries.

"I think I left my bracelet when I was here last month the night before the big anti-capital punishment rally," Cosette says, eyeing him steadily.

"I'm here for moral support," Eponine supplies.

"Oh, I'm so sorry. I don't think I've seen -- "

"Can I just come in and look around?" Cosette cranes her head to peek over Enjolras's shoulder. 

"I guess?" But they're both sliding in past him already like a pair of bloodhounds in cardigans and eyeshadow.

Enjolras stands in the living room. "Maybe if you tell me what it looks like, I can help you look?" he offers, but neither girl is paying him any attention, two pairs of sharp eyes trained on the room.

"Do you see --" Cosette begins, but Eponine shakes her head.

"Maybe you left it in the bedroom."

"My _bedroom_?!" 

Pontmercy is fucking dead. 

Enjolras trails after them, busy coming up with ways to punish Marius. Door-to-door petition duty, he thinks viciously. For the rest of his _life._

"Oh my gosh, he's the sweetest!" Enjolras looks up to find Robot tucked against Cosette's bosom, purring blissfully as Eponine rubs the underside of his chin.

"Oh, yeah." Enjolras rubs the back of his neck. "Sorry, I should have said, that's -- "

"I can't believe Courfeyrac was right!" Eponine crows. "Oh, look at his little face, I could _eat_ him!"

"Uh, guys?" Enjolras attempts. "The bracelet?"

Both girls fix him with a pitying gaze.

"Oh."

"Rookie mistake," Cosette snorts. She holds Robot's front paw between two fingers, pantomimes a little wave. "We're gonna be here for a while."

Enjolras knows when he's been beaten. 

 

\--

 

Enjolras wakes up on Saturday night to the blaring of his buzzer. Again. He rolls over, glancing at the clock: 1:37 AM.

"I swear to god," he fumes, unlocking the door for Grantaire, "if you've got another animal in a box --"

Grantaire had apparently been leaning on the door for support -- with good reason, given the blast of whiskey on his breath as he stumbles forward when the door is pulled back. Enjolras's body stops him from falling to the ground; his face mashes against the hollow below Enjolras's shoulder and Enjolras's arms go up, entirely without his conscious consent, to steady him. The fabric of his sea-green hoodie is softer than it looks.

Grantaire blinks owlishly up at him. "Oh," he slurs. "Hello there." Up close, the whiskey smell is tempered by cigarette smoke and something else, some deeper scent that clings to the locks of his curls where they're pressed against Enjolras's chin.

"What are you doing here?" Enjolras hisses. 

"Reasons," Grantaire says, and his eyes drift shut. 

Enjolras has seen Grantaire fall asleep in a variety of impractical positions in the past: leaning against a lamppost, sprawled across three bar stools, curled inside the trunk of Feuilly's car during a prank that went south. He's under no illusions that Grantaire will somehow rouse himself and decide that Enjolras makes a terrible vertical pillow, so he takes matters into his own hands, maneuvering him to the couch. Two weeks ago, he'd managed to shift Grantaire back to his own apartment after they put together Robot's sleeping space, but Grantaire is much worse off tonight; he barely reacts when Enjolras props his feet up on the couch and slides a pillow under his head. 

Enjolras starts with Grantaire's scuffed combat boots, picking apart the knotted laces and settling them on the floor. Next comes the hoodie, but the zipper jams twice when he tries to tug it down. He cups Grantaire's shoulder to try and slide the sleeves off, but Grantaire is warm and heavy in his arms, and his elbows stay locked. In the end, he lets him keep it -- it can get cold in here, late at night.

Grantaire comes to a bit when Enjolras steps away. "Whussit?" he mumbles.

"I'm going to get you a trash bin from the bathroom. Please aim your vomit accordingly."

Grantaire pushes himself up onto his elbows. His eyes work overtime to come to focus blearily in Enjolras's general direction. 

"Whurs R'bt?" Grantaire's mouth moves through a different set of shapes from what the words' pronunciation requires, as if he's been dubbed from a foreign language.

Enjolras sighs. "He's in bed."

"He doesn't wanna see me?" 

"He's asleep, Grantaire. It's almost two in the morning."

Grantaire flails about for a moment, and Enjolras winces -- it's too far to get the bin and bring it back if Grantaire's really about to empty the contents of his stomach, and he lets out a sigh of relief when Grantaire just digs into the pocket of his jeans. His clumsy fingers push the waistband down, baring a line of skin and the faint trail of dark hair, but then he gives a triumphant cry and reemerges with his phone.

His thumb works furiously at the touch screen, tapping away with surprising dexterity; Enjolras supposes it's a honed skill from countless drunk calls. He steps forward to try and take it away -- none of their friends need to be blessed with the Grantaire Audio Hour when he's already safe in Enjolras' apartment. 

Grantaire gives a crow of triumph and holds the screen aloft. "Avast!" 

"This isn't a boat; it's my apartment. And -- " he leans forward to take a look. "That's a picture of Robot with a dumb 1970s style Polaroid filter. People _want_ their pictures to look like this?"

"Eponine," Grantaire mumbles. "Sh'took like a billion with Cosette."

"Yeah, they came by on Tuesday because they heard about Robot from Courfeyrac."

"Him too?" Grantaire's surprised -- and hurt, Enjolras realizes. That's what underlays the drunkenness: the feeling of being left out. Enjolras thinks back to the careful way that Grantaire had handled Robot that first night, the money he must have spilled on that stupid Mets bear and the regret in his eyes when he explained the situation with his bastard landlord. His voice on the phone, whispering nonsense to Robot over the line and the utter lack of irony, for once. 

He'd called again, earlier that week; Enjolras hadn't answered, busy with work and figuring out how to move from their piece in the Law Review to something more impactful. At the time, he hadn't even thought twice about hitting "ignore."

Finding the root cause of the problem, though, isn't the same as resolving it. And when it comes to Grantaire, Enjolras isn't too proud to admit that he's never been very good at either of those. It's a mystery why Grantaire even came to him in the first place.

"He misses you," Enjolras tries. He's not really sure that it's true -- do cats miss people? -- and normally he'd be loath to fabricate, but Grantaire's head, which has sunk further and further toward his chest, perks up at the words.

"He does?" Grantaire says. His hope, so cheaply earned, makes something in Enjolras's chest clench.

"He's always playing with that bear you gave him," which is the truth, "and he really did like it when you talked to him on the phone."

Grantaire's smile is bleary, but sincere. "He's a good kitty," he says, his mouth only mashing the words a little.

"He is," Enjolras says. He feels the tenuous bridge of goodwill between them extending and steps out a little bit, testing its weight. "You could come by, sometimes, if it would make you feel better."

Grantaire's jaw stiffens. "I don't need you feeling bad for me."

"No, that's not." The ground beneath him starts to give. "It would be good for Robot, and I'd -- appreciate it if you kept him company, sometimes, while I was out." The thought of another person alone in his apartment is enough to raise his hackles, but he’ll get over it for Grantaire’s sake.

"Cool," he says. 

"Cool," Enjolras echoes, awkwardly. 

Grantaire slides back down against the couch, drunken lassitude slowing his limbs. He sets his phone down carefully, and tucks his hands against his face on the pillow. "Mind'f I sleep here?"

"Do I have a choice?" Enjolras says, and then regrets his tone, but Grantaire just gives him a dopey smile. 

"I'll go get a blanket," he amends. 

\--

The next morning, Enjolras wakes up to Robot gnawing on his hair. He pulls him off and goes out to make coffee -- only to find an empty couch and a fully brewed pot in the machine. Beside it, there's a note in Grantaire's spiky handwriting.

_thanks for letting me crash.  
-R _

Below it, a quick sketch of Robot with a speech bubble: "I think you're purrfect." It's surprisingly well executed. Enjolras knew Grantaire had gone to – and left – art school, but he’s never seen any of his work before.

He tacks the note on his fridge, next to a couple of takeout menus and postcards from the other side of the world.

 

\--

 

After that, it becomes something of a pattern. Grantaire doesn't come by every day, but it's often enough that Enjolras comes to expect him, and wonders -- but doesn't ask -- where he goes when he doesn't show up. He knows Grantaire picks up shifts at a few restaurants throughout the city, but he has no idea how else he fills his days. He’s never really considered it before, and he’s ashamed to realize it.

Some mornings, Grantaire will be there when Enjolras leaves for class, waiting at the door with a cup of coffee for Enjolras to take onto the train and a new toy to test out on Robot. (So far, the laser pointer Grantaire swiped from Combeferre is definitely the winner.) Other times, he doesn't come until Enjolras gets back at midday to change into a suit and tie for his internship at the Legal Services center downtown. 

"Looking fresh to death," Grantaire says when Enjolras reemerges. He's got a scrap of ribbon -- it looks like one of Jehan's -- and is dangling it before an enraptured Robot.

Enjolras resists the urge to shove his hands into his pocket. "I don't even know what that _means_ ," he says, affecting a crankiness that he doesn't actually feel. He comes to sit beside Grantaire on the couch, watching Robot dance on his back paws, batting at the ribbon.

"He's getting so big," Enjolras says. 

"Yeah," Grantaire smiles. "Hard to believe he used to fit in the palm of my hand." His fingers curl and uncurl, as if remembering.

"I made a vet appointment for Thursday. Do you want to come?" Enjolras hadn't planned on inviting him, but Grantaire's jaw drops and he drops the ribbon. Robot pounces.

"Really?" he says, turning to Enjolras.

Enjolras rubs the back of his neck, staring at a point on the wall behind Grantaire. He's never sure when he'll set Grantaire off -- the slightest thing will delight or wound him, and Enjolras always ends up feeling guilty in either case, never supposing his words will have half the effect that they do. He tries to be considerate of other people, most of the time; it's hard to remember when the gleaming contours of the Greater Good make an appearance, but he does his best. Somehow, though, he's always running roughshod over Grantaire's feelings, despite his best efforts. 

"Really," Enjolras says. On an impulse, he reaches out and squeezes Grantaire's shoulder. 

 

\--

 

Things that Enjolras and Grantaire learn at the vet:  
-Robot is approximately seven weeks old.  
-Robot is well within the normal size and weight range for a kitten of that age.  
-Robot is a trooper when it comes to vaccines, barely whimpering at shots that have Grantaire ducking his face against Enjolras's shoulder.  
-Robot is a girl.

"Well," Enjolras says as they wait for the bus back to his apartment, the kitty-carrying case between them. "I guess it's like you said -- fuck patriarchal gender norms."

"Yeah." Grantaire still seems a little shell-shocked from the revelation.

"I mean," Enjolras says, "it doesn't really change anything, right? She's still the same cat."

"Yeah."

The bus arrives and they troop on, scoring a double seat in the middle. Enjolras tucks the carrying case under his feet, brackets it with his legs to keep it from sliding. Grantaire takes the window seat, and presses his face against the glass. 

"You okay?" Enjolras asks. The bus makes a left turn, and the momentum presses their sides together. He stays like that after they straighten out. 

"She is never going on any dates with any boy cats," Grantaire mutters darkly. "Ever."

"We'll take her back in for that -- special appointment next week," Enjolras promises, and turns his face to hide his smile.

 

\--

 

Enjolras is on his way to the Center when he gets a call from an unknown number with a 518 area code. He almost doesn't pick up; he's gotten crank calls in the past from people who found his contact information on the LSSJ website. He hesitates until the third ring, then ducks into the alcove of a building to answer it.

It's not a crank call. 

 

\--

 

Text message to Combeferre: _State Sen. Jeanne Lamarque's office called. Someone there read our piece on stop & frisk. They want us to testify in Albany. _

Text message to Enjolras: _Holy shit._

Text message to Combeferre: _Basically. Tell Courfeyrac to cancel whatever scuzzy little assignation he's got planned tonight, and come to mine. The hearing's in two weeks; we have to get started NOW._

Text message to Enjolras: _I might rephrase that, but okay._

 

\--

 

"Okay, so how much time will we reasonably get to make our case?" Courfeyrac says. "Fifteen, twenty minutes, and then questions?"

"If that much," Combeferre says. He's hunched over his laptop, reviewing the last five years of testimony to the Crime Victims, Crime and Correction Committee. "Whatever we want to say, we need to say it fast. If we stick to the statistics -- "

"No one will listen if we just spout numbers at them," Enjolras cuts in. "We need to make them rip the mask off the NYPD and reveal them to as the racist neo-fascists they are; we need to make them see -- "

"I don't think we'll get very far if we start throwing the F-word around," Courfeyrac says. "Or I guess in this case, the N-F word."

"But it's true!" Enjolras says.

"Even so," Combeferre chimes in, "none of us are directly affected by stop-and-frisk. We don't want to be in a position where it seems like we're appropriating the community's concerns and talking over them."

"But they're not calling anyone from the community to testify at all. The only reason they're listening to us is because we have Ivy League credentials attached to our names." Enjolras runs a hand through his hair. "If we don't use that structural advantage to advocate forcefully and try to change the system, then what good are we?"

"I'm just saying, we need to play to our strengths," Combeferre avers. 

"Fuck our strengths!"

Courfeyrac sighs. "When's the food getting here? I can't tear down the system on an empty stomach."

As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

Enjolras pushes his chair back. "Fifteen minutes to eat," he tells them, "and then we have to figure out a plan. We need to come out strong on this, or we're wasting everyone's time."

He opens the door with one hand, turning to digging into his back pocket for his wallet. "Just a sec," he says "I know I have --"

"I come bearing gifts!" Grantaire proclaims.

"What?" Enjolras whips around, only to have an aluminum foil sculpture in the shape of a duck thrust into his face.

"Yeah," Grantaire beams, "the restaurant catered a corporate event and apparently there's some law where they weren't allowed to donate the leftovers to charity, total bullshit, I know -- I have like five swans full of canapés!"

"Make sure they remembered my wontons," Courfeyrac says, coming up beside Enjolras. "Oh hey, Grantaire."

"Oh. Hey." Grantaire's expression falters.

"Shit, are those leftovers from Rustino's?" Courfeyrac makes grabby hands. "R, how come you never show up on my doorstep with savory treats?"

Grantaire passes over the foil swan, but his eyes don't leave Enjolras.

"We're working on a strategy for our testimony in Albany," Enjolras says. "Sorry, I should've said something."

"Why are you sorry?" Grantaire's mouth twists. "I'm the one who just barged in and -- "

"No, no!" Enjolras catches Grantaire's arm before he can turn away. "It's fine. I meant, I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I just didn’t know if you --"

" _I'm_ sorry," Grantaire says, "really, I shouldn't just expect that -- "

"This is _amazing_." Courfeyrac pops a tiny puff pastry in his mouth. "'Ferre, you gotta come see this."

"Are you trying to pay with sensual dance moves again?" Combeferre calls out from the kitchen.

"Even better!"

"I'm gonna go," Grantaire says. "I'm sure you guys have a lot of work to do."

"Please don't." Enjolras hasn't let go of Grantaire's sleeve. He recognizes that he’s holding on and catalogues this unexpected fact, but makes no move to rectify it. "I'm sure Robot would love the company."

"Oh sure, _Robot_ ," Courfeyrac mutters, but Enjolras ignores him. He watches Grantaire, knowing that this is one of those moments he's always missing, where the chance to be cruel or kind flashes past. He's determined not to fuck it up.

"Okay," Grantaire says quietly.

The delivery comes twenty minutes later -- they do forget Courfeyrac's wontons, and Enjolras gives him his. He mostly just eats the finger foods that Grantaire brought: tiny cheese wedges and mini-quiches and little roasted peppers stuffed with ricotta and dipped in truffle oil. 

Grantaire makes a concerted effort to keep out of their way, restricting his antics with Robot to the living room. Enjolras's attention keeps being diverted, though -- every time he looks over, Grantaire is rubbing his nose against Robot's fuzzy little belly, or letting her walk over his face, or tapping his fingers across the couch cushion until she pounces on them.

The third time Combeferre catches his gaze wandering, he takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose. Enjolras is reminded of the rare occasions he was scolded as a child.

"R?" Combeferre calls out. "Could you come in here, please?"

Enjolras shoots him a withering glare, but Combeferre just gives him a very put-upon sigh. 

"Sup?" Grantaire has Robot perched on one shoulder like a pirate's parrot.

"Do you think we might trouble you for your input?" Combeferre says. "We've been at this for hours, and I think it might be good to have another perspective."

"Really?" Grantaire looks to Enjolras.

Enjolras nods. 

Courfeyrac does a very poor job at suppressing a snicker.

Grantaire settles down uneasily at the table, looking between them as if he's about to be kicked out. He shouldn’t be this hesitant: even though he doesn't actually attend law school, he's a regular at their meetings -- he came with Bahorel once and just never stopped. But he's never been consistent enough (or sober enough, Enjolras thinks) to make a place for himself in the inner circle. 

He's on his best behavior tonight, though. He only drinks one of the Coronas from the six-pack that Courfeyrac brought with him, gives good suggestions that none of them had thought of, and even chimes in with a story about giving a speech in front of the state senate in 2004 as a high-school sophomore, "In my misspent youth," he says with a rueful smile. Enjolras is suddenly hit with a visceral desire to meet that young man, to unspool the years like film in a camera until Grantaire the idealist is sitting with them instead. He wonders if they would have been friends, then.

Eventually, things start to peter out. Courfeyrac begs off, and leaves with a minimum of meaningful eyebrow waggles. Enjolras doesn't dignify his buffoonery with any reaction, but he thinks he catches Grantaire blushing. 

At about midnight, Grantaire yawns mightily three times in a row. He stretches his arms up, rolling out his shoulders. "'m _beat_ ," he says.

Enjolras is busy cobbling together a first draft of their remarks from his notes. "I washed the spare set of sheets," he says without looking up. "They're on the rocking chair, along with your towel. I think Robot might have hid one of her mice toys in there, though, so shake them out unless you want her trying to eat your hair in the middle of the night."

"Always a charming way to wake up," Grantaire says, and heads into the living room.

Enjolras writes another paragraph before a low cough interrupts his chain of thought. He looks up.

Combeferre is watching him. 

Enjolras blinks. "Is there something else you wanted to talk about?" he says.

"I don't know," Combeferre says. "Is there something we should be talking about?"

Enjolras frowns, but before he can ask, Combeferre adds, "You know, it's not good for a child's development if her parents don't model healthy patterns of personal intimacy."

Enjolras accidentally deletes several hundred words. " _What_?" His gaze flies to the living room.

"Don't worry, he's in the shower," Combeferre says. "Although I guess that answers my question."

"You are _devious_ ," Enjolras seethes. "You're worse than Courfeyrac. And I don't know what you're -- insinuating, but there's absolutely nothing untoward going on here."

Combeferre looks distressingly unchastened. "Enjolras. I've known you our whole lives. You have the cohabitational instincts of a snail. You've never let _me_ spend the night on your couch."

"His landlord is a slum lord!" Enjolras protests. "Last week, he told me that he's pretty sure the guy is trying to start a cockroach infestation, just to get him to move out."

"It sounds like he could use some effective legal counsel."

"That's what I said, but he won't listen -- " Enjolras narrows his eyes. "Is that some kind of double entendre?"

Combeferre quirks an eyebrow. "How would that even work?"

"I don't know, and I don't _want_ to know. This whole thing is ridiculous."

"Maybe," Combeferre allows, but his tone suggests otherwise. He starts gathering his papers together, organizing his notes and transferring them into his briefcase. "Much as I would love to continue this Laurel and Hardy routine for another agonizing hour, I've got to get home -- Contracts and Economic Organization at eight am tomorrow." He stands, smoothing invisible creases in his jeans. 

"I'll send you this draft when I'm done. And, uh --" Enjolras makes a vague hand motion, "I'd appreciate if you didn't talk about your -- speculations with the other members of the group. It would distract, I think, from our focus."

"Of course. I leave it in your capable hands."

"Thank you." Enjolras pauses. "Wait -- do you mean the draft, or --"

"Good night!" Combeferre says, and lets himself out.

 

\--

 

For the next two weeks, Enjolras barely sleeps. He goes to class in a daze and comes back with impeccable notes on subjects he doesn't remember at all; his mind is ablaze with ideas for the committee testimony, arguments that rise up like skyscrapers and rhetorical flourishes that feel hot enough to burn his tongue. He leaves dozens of messages on Combeferre's voicemail every day and at night returns to his apartment to see a single emailed reply with all of his thoughts formulated and footnoted in neat twelve point Times New Roman. Enjolras has always considered his ability to focus one of his greatest strengths, but now it's as though everything else has peeled away, like he's walking through a tunnel and the speck of light on the other end is Albany.

It's almost two am on Tuesday -- or Wednesday, actually. Enjolras has been working since he got back from the center at six; he vaguely remembers shoving a fistful of trail mix into his mouth when the sides of his stomach started rubbing against each other. The lines on the page he's reading wobble, and his treacherous eyes won't clear when he blinks them twice. 

He makes his way into the kitchen for coffee (Or is this more coffee? He's not sure), only to find Grantaire sitting there, coloring in the empty boxes of the Times crossword with a Sharpie.

Grantaire looks up. His eyes are webbed with sleep, but he grins up at Enjolras. "Coffee break?"

Enjolras can't get his words to come out, and Grantaire continues, "I have to admit, I'm under strict orders from our friends to keep you away from any coffee after midnight. Apparently your love of semicolons turns into a grammatical BDSM kinkfest when you have too much.”

"I need to finish this," Enjolras manages, stiffly. "It's important."

A shadow passes over Grantaire's face. Enjolras feels like he should know what he said to make Grantaire look like that, but his thoughts won't coalesce here, just like they wouldn't at his desk. "I know it's important," he says. "And it deserves your not-inconsiderable full powers. Which require your rest."

Enjolras scrubs a hand over his face to stimulate blood flow to his temples, then does it twice more until he can force his eyes open again. When they do, he sees that Grantaire has risen and is standing in front of him. He doesn't smell like alcohol -- he never does when he's here, Enjolras realizes in a burst of clarity. Again, the meaning of this insight eludes him.

"Ninety minutes," Grantaire says. He puts a hand to Enjolras's shoulder. "One full sleep cycle. It'll clear your head and reset that big brain of yours." 

Enjolras is going to protest, but somehow Grantaire has him through the kitchen and into his bedroom before he can find the words. He eases him into bed with gentle hands, and the parallel to that night with Grantaire nearly insensate on the couch strikes him. 

"Wait." Enjolras catches Grantaire just as he's about to sneak out. "Have you been here this whole time?"

Grantaire pauses in the doorway, half his figure illuminated and half in shadow. "You know me," he says. "Nothing better to do than harass your cat and make sure that you don't collapse of exhaustion."

"Thank you," Enjolras says. He pushes up on an elbow to look directly at Grantaire, even though he can't see his face. "You're a good friend to me, R."

Grantaire doesn't say anything for a moment. 

"Ninety minutes," he repeats at last, and eases the door shut.

Enjolras ends up sleeping for four and a half hours. He would be angry at Grantaire for not waking him sooner, but it's only after untangling a knot in his opening remarks that he realizes how much time had passed -- and by then, Grantaire has sacked out on the couch, Robot a purring mass on his chest. 

Enjolras sends off the new draft to Combeferre, and tugs down the blankets to cover Grantaire's feet.

 

\--

 

Combeferre and Enjolras take the train up from the city on the afternoon before their testimony. Enjolras clings to a copy of his speech until Combeferre rescues it, the paper twisted almost beyond salvaging. (It's a good thing there are at least a half dozen more copies stowed in various pockets of his briefcase, along with his laptop.) Instead, he watches the train hug the curving shore of the Hudson River, the sun dipping below the soft green shoulder of the Catskills in the west.

The train's stopped to pick up passengers when his phone buzzes against his thigh with a text message.

_jsyk robot and i r throwing a party in ur absence…its getting pretty crazy. catnip for everyone!_

His laugh draws Combeferre's attention. 

Enjolras hands the phone over. "He's house-sitting." They haven't talked about Grantaire since that night, and true to Combeferre's word, none of the other group members had brought it up. 

"That's nice of him," is all Combeferre says, and hands the phone back.

They lose service going around the next bend in the river, and Enjolras puts his phone away after that.

Their train gets in at seven o'clock; they split a cab to cross the river from the station and stop for dinner at a burrito place that Bahorel recommended from the time he took -- and failed -- the bar exam here a couple years ago. The place is too loud to talk strategy, and Enjolras is honestly thankful for the respite. They watch a college basketball game on one of the televisions, and pretend to understand or give a shit about it. 

By the time they leave and start walking to their hotel, a light snow is adding another dusting to the six inches or so that already blankets the ground. It's a further walk than either of them expected, but Enjolras relishes the way the snow crunches under his boots and the bracing chill clears his head.

"We should go over the bios of the Senators one more time," he says. His breath hangs in the frozen air in front of them. 

Anyone else would rib him for being over-prepared; he can imagine Grantaire's wry remark about how the makeup of the committee hasn't changed in the last twenty-four hours. Combeferre, however, only nods, and they spend the rest of the walk drilling each other on the names, districts and voting patterns of the twelve committee members. 

At the hotel, Combeferre liaises with Senator Lamarque's aide and Courfeyrac back in the city. Enjolras had wanted to get involved with the logistics, but as Courfeyrac pointed out, "Any more pressure, and your head is gonna just shoot off your neck like a Roman Candle."

Enjolras hadn't had the energy to contest the point at the time, which probably is a compelling bit of supporting evidence for Courfeyrac’s assertion, but now, sitting on the foot of his bed and watching Combeferre talk in low murmurs, he feels at loose ends. He thinks about reviewing his speech one more time, but he knows that as soon as he glances at it, there'll be a dozen things he'll want to change, and the hours between now and nine am tomorrow are too few. Anxiety begins to wind its way through his stomach, up his esophagus.

Seeking a task for his hands, he takes his phone out of his pocket and scrolls through his emails: notifications about speakers coming to the school; notes from Courfeyrac for the classes they missed today. And four emails from Grantaire -- all without a subject line, dated from the last fifteen minutes.

Visions of his apartment consumed by an inferno flash through Enjolras's mind. He opens up the first message.

Enjolras snorts. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Combeferre look up, but he doesn't explain, just clicks through to the last message.

;

The attachment takes a long time to load on the shitty hotel wifi. 

Enjolras draws a breath. He's faintly aware that his face is doing a thing, but he honestly has no idea what it might be. Robot stares up at him with her big, gray eyes, but it's Grantaire's eyes he wishes he could see. The top of the frame cuts out just at the dark fall of his lower lashes, and only the parenthetic curve of his mouth suggests his expression. Enjolras wonders how many shots Eponine took before settling on this one. He wonders what they were talking about, to make Grantaire look like that.

"Everything all right?" Combeferre stands in front of him.

Enjolras hits the home button. "Fine," he says. 

"Senator Lamarque's legislative aide is going to pick us up in the lobby at eight -- he'll walk us to the Capitol, where Senator Lamarque will meet us before the testimony."

Enjolras nods. "We should get some rest." Somehow, he doesn't feel nervous anymore.

They take turns in the bathroom, and then Combeferre shuts off the light. Sharing a room, lying on cheap mattresses and hearing the faint sounds of rowdy people stumbling through the hall -- it reminds Enjolras of their dorm in college. 

He's almost asleep when he realizes he never wrote Grantaire back. In the other bed, Combeferre is snoring softly, and he doesn't even stir when Enjolras reaches over and turns his phone on. He types out a message, then pauses for a long moment. It feels like there's something else he wants to say, but the part of his brain that's moved on to tomorrow is blocking his recollection. He makes a note to think about it again, after everything's over.

He hits send, and then shuts off the ringer. 

 

\--

 

They set their alarm for six-thirty so they won't have to rush, but somehow time still speeds up: it feels like barely a moment passes between waking up and meeting Senator Lamarque's aide. The hotel is only a few blocks from the Statehouse, and Enjolras finds himself wishing it were further away. Combeferre and the aide make small talk, but Enjolras keeps himself aloof, tries to fight the resurgent anxious swell in his chest. His glove-clad fingers close around the corners of his iPhone, but Grantaire hasn't responded to his message. He probably isn't even awake.

The state capitol building looks like something out of a nineteenth century engraving, gray marble and red peaked spires. The aide guides them through a side entrance, where they're patted down by security and pass through a metal detector. The wand buzzes over Enjolras's red tie, and there's a moment of chaos before he sheepishly unhooks his tie clip. 

Combeferre gives him a theatrical eye roll, mouths, "troublemaker" at him. Enjolras barely keeps his smile in check.

They turn a corner, and a small woman with a close-cropped haircut rises to meet them. Jeanne Rosemonde Lamarque, born in East Harlem to Haitian immigrant parents; former deputy Borough President of Manhattan; adjunct professor at Fordham University School of Law. 

"Thank you both so much for coming," Senator Lamarque says, shaking each of their hands in turn. Her grip is cool and firm, and her gaze unflinching. Enjolras likes her already. 

"It was our pleasure, ma'am," says Combeferre. 

"I'm sorry it's such short notice; we had to fight to get this issue onto the Committee's agenda as it is." She starts walking, quick determined strides and they follow her. "Which one of you will be speaking today?"

"I will," Enjolras says, and she gives him a long appraising look. 

"You're not really the face of this issue," she says. 

"That's true," Enjolras replies, "but my face tends to get noticed, and I work hard to translate that attention to meaningful change. Our organization at Columbia Law School has been providing support and legal advice for individuals who find themselves targeted by stop-and-frisk, in addition to the scholarship we've produced on the practice's violation of the Fourth Amendment that your office noticed."

A ghost of a smile crosses her features. "Good answer."

"It's the truth."

"I can tell," she says. They pause at the door to the Senate Chamber, and she turns to them. "I would tell you boys good luck, but something tells me that you're not the type to believe in it. You've got that hard-nosed striver look to you."

Enjolras blinks. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Not at all -- it makes me think you might be on the other side of the committee table one day." And Enjolras doesn't know what to say to that -- doesn't know how to express the sharp flair of pride that's pushed away his anxiety, but maybe that's why she said it, because then she's opening the door and they're walking into the ornate splendor of the Senate Chamber.

 

\--

 

Enjolras won't ever remember the testimony with the detail he'd like. Weeks, months later, he'll play the recording of it and mouth along with his image, trying to recall what he was thinking, but the curious hollow clarity of his mind will remain opaque. It's as though something else flows through him, that day, taking hold of his mind and rendering him a vessel. Watching himself will be like watching a charismatic stranger wearing his face. 

 

\--

 

Afterwards, they stick around the Capitol for a few more hours, and Combeferre takes the lead in making small talk. Enjolras is as gracious as he can be, even to those individuals he knows weren't paying him any attention, but he's not very good at this part. He collects business cards and tries not to look too pained.

They take a taxi back to the train station, and manage to catch an earlier train than the one they'd bought tickets for. The train is mostly empty, populated by a scattered assortment of businessmen and young people heading into the city for the night. 

Enjolras opens his phone. He means to type up a quick missive to the group, briefly tell them how it went and confirm their next meeting, but instead he opens Grantaire's email from last night, the one with the photo.

"Call him," Combeferre says.

Enjolras looks up. "What?"

Combeferre gives a wry smile. "You've been staring at your phone screen for thirty seconds. It's getting creepy. Also, he texted me to ask how it went."

"Why didn't he text me?"

"I don't speak fluent Grantaire, but I think he doesn't want to disturb you." Combeferre stands up, stretching his back and rolling out his neck. "I'm going to go see if they have pretzels in the dining car. Want anything while I'm gone?"

Enjolras shakes his head. He traces the cuff of Grantaire's hoodie in the photo before he catches himself. 

Combeferre squeezes his shoulder lightly and steps past him into the aisle.

"Hello?" Grantaire answers midway through the second ring. 

"Hey," Enjolras says. "We just got on the train a little while ago."

"Awesome. How'd it go?" Grantaire sounds a little out of breath, as if he'd run to get the phone.

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" Enjolras says. "I can call back, if -- "

"Fuck off," and Enjolras can imagine Grantaire's smile as he says it. "I was just making some Easy Mac in your kitchen when you called."

"I didn't even know I _owned_ any Easy Mac."

"Don't worry, I hooked you up. Now, spill."

It takes Enjolras a second to get his thoughts back on track -- his brain keeps providing him with an image of Grantaire curled up on the corner of his couch with his lunch, his sleeves pulled over his hands and his bare feet tucked up underneath him. A highlighter-orange smudge of processed cheese at the corner of Grantaire's lips.

"Enjolras?"

"Yeah," he says, faintly. His own tongue darts out, licking the same spot. "Sorry. It went really well."

"That's fucking awesome," Grantaire gushes. "Oh, man -- so you think you got through to them? Like, what did they say, what kind of questions did they ask?"

"You really want to hear about it?" Enjolras asks. 

"I always want to hear about you." 

For the second time in thirty seconds, Enjolras forgets what he was going to say. The quiet intensity in Grantaire's voice, the responding heat it kindles in Enjolras's chest -- it's the same feeling as when he saw the photograph last night, he realizes. Only now, there's nothing to distract him, no pressing business to divert his attention from the way his heart kicks up at the sound of Grantaire's breath across the line. 

"I think we're about to lose service," Enjolras hears himself say. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears. "I'm sorry. I'll be back in a couple of hours -- will you stay?"

"I suppose I could impose on your hospitality a while longer," Grantaire says. "There's a 'Say Yes to the Dress' marathon about to start and your TV’s much nicer than mine."

"You never impose," Enjolras presses. 

Grantaire laughs. "We'll see about that. Talk to you later, E," he says, and ends the call.

Enjolras leans his head against the window. The glass is cool against his forehead, and he feels the train's vibrations as it swallows up the rail trestles. The scenery flashes by; he tries to focus on single trees but then the entire earth careens like a carnival ride and he gets so dizzy he has to press his eyes shut. 

That's what it feels like, he thinks. Just hearing Grantaire's breath.

He gives himself five minutes to sit with this feeling, to probe gently at its contours and sound out its extent. It's not new, he knows. It's been here, biding its time, sitting at the edge of his peripheral vision like a very polite iceberg. The evidence, when he looks for it, sprouts up with alacrity: abiding and even coming to enjoy Grantaire's regular presence in his apartment; letting Grantaire minister to him when he worked himself to the bone; hell, the entire Robot affair from the first moment that Grantaire had leaned on his doorbell. The clarity provokes another moment of vertigo. 

Combeferre slides into the seat beside him, quiet and undemanding. Enjolras can only imagine how he must look.

When the five minutes pass, he sits upright again. Smooths a hand over his suit trousers, for lack of anything better to do.

Wordless, Combeferre offers over a bottle of Diet Coke.

Enjolras snorts. "Got anything stronger?" 

He expects Combeferre to remind him that it's scarcely past noon, winces in expectation of a comparison with Grantaire. But Combeferre only regards him steadily, and then pulls out two mini bottles of cheap vodka from the inner pocket of his jacket.

He tosses one of the bottles into Enjolras's lap, and dumps the other into his own Coke. "I thought, in lieu of champagne."

"The fight's not over yet," Enjolras cautions. "And all we did was leverage our privilege into being heard. We need to do better at letting other people speak and making sure that the debate --"

"And we will," Combeferre interrupts him. "But today, we did a good thing and it's important to stand back and appreciate that. Sometimes fixating on the big picture can bring its own blindness."

It's a bit on the nose for Enjolras's current headspace, and he looks down, rolling the mini bottle back and forth in his hand. "I'm trying," he says, after a moment.

Combeferre's hand on his shoulder makes it clear that he's aware they've moved past the topic at hand. Again, he doesn't say anything, but it's the warmth of his silence that allows Enjolras speak again. "I'm not very good at these things, am I."

"I think you're probably better at it than you know." Combeferre takes a sip of his drink. "You just tend to forget there are things you don't excel at, so the reminder comes as a bit of a shock."

Enjolras chuckles. "When did you get to be the meta-narrator of my life?"

Combeferre nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Around the time you decided your life was going to be historic."

"So, fourth grade, then."

"Third." Combeferre smiles. "You circulated a petition to allow third-party candidates onto our mock-presidential election ballots."

Enjolras laughs. "I don't even remember doing that."

"Lincoln Elementary was never the same." 

They don't talk much for the rest of the ride. Combeferre takes advantage of the empty car to catch up on reading, and Enjolras tries to do the same, but his thoughts scatter and refuse to cohere. He closes his eyes, tries to re-center himself, but the rocking of the train and the susurrating clacking of the wheels lull him, and somewhere around Rhinecliff he drifts off. He only wakes up when the breaks engage in the tunnels under Manhattan, the sudden jolt startling him upright.

"Sleeping Beauty," Combeferre nods.

Enjolras works his jaw. The inside of his mouth tastes ghastly. "Sorry," he says.

"You were the perfect traveling companion," Combeferre says. "The drool notwithstanding."

Enjolras brings a hand to the corner of his mouth before he catches Combeferre's wry grin. "I hate you." 

"I know." The train inches its way towards its berth in the station. The light from a succession of subway grates striates the car. "I went ahead and sent a message to the group, informing them of our success. We'll meet tomorrow at the usual time to do a full post-mortem, and Senator Lamarque's office has already sent us a copy of the video footage, so the transcript should be available tomorrow morning."

With one last grotesque screech of the brakes, the train comes to a halt. The conductor comes over the intercom system, announcing the station. They grab their bags and depart, joining the meager throng of businessmen that threads up from the platform into the mid-century ghastliness of Penn Station.

"I wanted to send a thank you message to Senator Lamarque for inviting us," Enjolras says, when they emerge into the main concourse. "We should do it right away."

"Already done," Combeferre says. "I also told them we'd be happy to recommend other groups, especially community organizations, to testify."

"Oh." Enjolras blinks. "Well, that's good. We should get in touch with some of those people, invite them to contact the Senator too -- "

"Enjolras." Combeferre stops him. "Go home."

Enjolras takes a breath. "Right. So. I'll -- see you tomorrow?" 

"Tomorrow," Combeferre nods. Enjolras goes to leave, but he catches him in a hug -- Enjolras is so surprised that he just leans into it, arms awkwardly pinned to his sides. 

They part at the subway platform, Enjolras opting for the local while Combeferre hops on the Express. Enjolras could have gone along with him part of the way, but he takes his leave to spend more time with his thoughts. Without anything else to distract him, the mass in his chest looms up again. The edges of it are jagged, and they pull at his body; he sits on one of the backward facing two-seaters on the subway and tries to label, exactly, the emotion that accompanies this strange combination of tension in his abdomen and lightness in his chest. There has to be a word for it, but none of the ones that he tries on seem to fit.

He gets off at his stop and walks the four blocks to the apartment. The city's cold, but it's better than Albany; they haven't gotten much snow this winter and Enjolras is almost sad about that. 

There's a new pet store in the neighborhood that just opened up a couple weeks ago; he walks past and sees a woman in the front window, adjusting a silly-looking harness on a cat mannequin. He thinks about stopping in, picking up a treat for Robot, and delaying the inevitable. He always makes a point to support local businesses, after all. 

But he doesn't want to delay it, he realizes. He wants to go home. 

_Home._ The word stops him in his tracks. He's never really thought about his apartment that way -- of course, it's his home, in that it's where he lives and spends much (too much, maybe) of his time. But the rooms and the particular configuration of furniture taken together have never held much sentimental value for him. His parents moved houses a lot when he was growing up, trading up within the same community every few years in the endless treadmill of improved property values. He'd learned to feel like a tenant long before he signed his first apartment lease, and treating his surroundings as temporary and peripheral -- the objects and even, he's ashamed to admit, the people -- came naturally to him.

Now, though, when he closes his eyes and thinks about his apartment, what comes to mind isn't an itemization of his refrigerator's contents, or the dangerously high stack of law books on his desk. Instead, he thinks about Robot, napping inside his shoes. Walking over his face in the morning to signal that she wants to be fed. Chasing after the green laser pointer dot that Grantaire zigs across the floor. Grantaire's laugh when she runs into something, and the gentle curve of his hands when he scoops her up and checks for damage. 

Someone jostles his shoulder, and he realizes that he's standing at the door to his apartment building, smiling at the sidewalk. He unlocks the front door and steps inside. His apartment's on the fourth floor, but the elevator takes too long to arrive and so he climbs the steps two-at-a-time, overnight bag bumping against his right side, the strap digging into his shoulder. 

His key fits into the lock. He hears the click as the tumblers line up. His hand is turning the doorknob, opening the door, and he hears Grantaire call out his name.

"You're early!" 

Grantaire's wearing, of all things, an apron -- Enjolras didn't even know he owned one of those. He means to ask, but then he sees the banner hung on the wall above the couch, sheets of printer paper taped together and big red letters:

**CONGRATULATIONS ON THE THING**

"There was gonna be cake." Grantaire runs a hand through his hair, sheepish. His mobile mouth pulls to one side. "But there was an incident."

Enjolras is speechless. 

"It's fine," Grantaire says quickly, mistaking his silence for anger, "it wasn't, like, a serious incident, but I thought you made cakes vegan by just leaving out the eggs and the milk and that is incredibly not the case. Eponine said she'd come by after her class with scones from that cafe you like, but she doesn't get done until three, and."

Grantaire's hands are gesturing furiously; it's an easy thing for Enjolras to cross the space and catch them both, halt their transit. Grantaire's pulse is rabbiting, and it's even easier for him to slide his thumbs up to feel it at the inside of his wrists. The easiest thing in the world, then, to tug Grantaire until he's close enough and then fit their mouths together. 

Grantaire goes completely still, but Enjolras doesn't let go. He holds him there, his thumb rubbing small circles on Grantaire's skin and his lips just pressed to Grantaire's, waiting.

Finally, Grantaire makes a small weak sound, and his mouth opens against Enjolras'. He eases his right hand free and moves it to settle against Enjolras's waist, holding on with a force that belies the gentleness of the kiss. Enjolras moves his hand to the nape of Grantaire's neck, combing through the downy curls.

When they break apart, Grantaire keeps his eyes shut. Enjolras watches him. The last six weeks feel like practice, now, for the work of seeing Grantaire this close, deciphering the succession of emotions that dart across his face when he opens his eyes again.

"This isn't a thank you for the banner, is it," he says, his expressions having passed from hope and fear through worry to a casualness that Enjolras can only tell is false from the tightness at the corners of his mouths. Enjolras barely resists kissing him again to try and smooth it away. Now that the option has arisen, it's difficult to imagine doing anything else. 

"No," Enjolras says instead. "It's not."

"And you." Grantaire looks at him dead-on. His gaze is unremitting, his eyes blue enough to sting. "You meant it."

Enjolras nods.

"How long?"

It's not what Enjolras was expecting; he treads water. "Does it matter?"

Grantaire gives a little laugh that isn't really one, all the mirth sucked out of it. "Jesus, E," he says. There's a ragged, rasping edge to his voice. " _Yes_." 

"I don't know," Enjolras admits. "A long time, I think." 

"But you -- " Grantaire cuts himself off with a frustrated exhale. His hand tightens on the hem of Enjolras's shirt, beseeching, but then he seems to remember himself and his fingers go slack. "I've been here this whole time, just, _waiting_ \-- and you never said."

"I'm sorry," he says, the words tripping out of his mouth, "I don't know -- I swear, Grantaire, I didn't know until today."

"What are you, an _idiot_?" And Enjolras can't help but laugh at that, because he really is, the biggest idiot in the universe, to have been six feet away from Grantaire this whole time and never tried to kiss him before. He tries again, and this time Grantaire matches him beat-for-beat, pushing Enjolras's bag off his shoulder to fist his collar and keep him close. Enjolras gasps, and the sound just gives Grantaire the leeway to flash his teeth over Enjolras's bottom lip, sucking on it as though it's the first step to devouring him whole. There's a heat building from the bottom of Enjolras's stomach through his suit and his heavy woolen coat, hot enough to scald, but he clings to Grantaire anyway, uncaring.

A plaintive meow; the jangle of tags on a tiny collar.

Grantaire pulls back. Enjolras goes with him; their foreheads touch.

"If we stay really still," he grits out, "maybe she won't see us."

Robot meows again, and they both dissolve into helpless laughter.

"Okay, okay." Grantaire leans his head against Enjolras's shoulder for support for a moment, before stepping back. 

A warm lump attaches itself to Enjolras's calf. He looks down to see Robot chewing fixedly on his shoelaces.

"Little monster," he says, and picks her up. Her paws slip on the fabric of his dress shirt, and he resettles her against his chest, scratching the spot behind her ears that makes her eyes drift shut.

"Somebody missed Daddy while he was gone."

"Are you the mommy, then?" Enjolras teases.

Grantaire smiles, supremely unconcerned. "Fuck patriarchal gender norms," he says. His smile is almost impossible to resist.

So Enjolras stops trying.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  oh, anon. i am quite sure you were not expecting this when you sent me this ask on my [tumblr](http://barricadeur.tumblr.com/), but it is you who planted the seed of this story, and you who receives my first thank you. 
> 
> although this idea began with an anon, the story itself would not exist without [acchikocchi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/acchikocchi/pseuds/acchikocchi), who acted as audience, plot-unsticker, cheerleading squad and general rock throughout the entire creative process. i hope to never write without you again.
> 
> i was also extraordinarily blessed to call upon the services of [harborshore](http://archiveofourown.org/users/harborshore) as my beta, and a finer one you will never meet. it's thanks to her that this plot did not collapse under the weight of its own twee. further thanks is due to [goshemily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/goshemily/pseuds/goshemily), who fielded all of my dumb questions about law school and tried to lend a modicum of realism to these absurd proceedings. an additional shout-out to [ark](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark), whose unflagging positivity about this story after a long night of drinking gave me added courage to post it. photo courtesy of cuteboyswithcats on tumblr.
> 
> the character of senator lamarque is based on [rose pierre-louis](http://www.mbpo.org/free_details.asp?id=47), the real-life deputy borough president of manhattan. she kicks ass, and i would vote for her to be my state senator in a heartbeat.
> 
> stop-and-frisk is also a real thing -- a really bullshit thing that you should [be as angry as enjolras about](http://www.nyclu.org/issues/racial-justice/stop-and-frisk-practices)!
> 
> finally, the title comes from ["mushaboom"](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cYF0qU5WSew), by feist, a song that is way too sunny for e/R under any other circumstances.


End file.
